“'To go with this'! What do you mean?”
“To the publishers, of course.”
“The PUBLISHERS!”
“Certainly. Did you think you were going to keep these songs to yourself?”
“But they aren't worth it! They can't be—good enough!” Unbelieving joy was in Billy's voice.
“No? Well, we'll let others decide that,” observed Cyril, with a shrug. “All is, if you've got any more wood—like this—I advise you to make it up right away.”
“But I have already!” cried the girl, excitedly. “There are lots of little things that I've—that is, there are—some,” she corrected hastily, at the look that sprang into Cyril's eyes.
“Oh, there are,” laughed Cyril. “Well, we'll see what—” But he did not see. He did not even finish his sentence; for Billy's maid, Rosa, appeared just then with a card.
“Show Mr. Calderwell in here,” said Billy. Cyril said nothing—aloud; which was well. His thoughts, just then, were better left unspoken.